(no subject)
Who: Arland madeinoblivion and Vexen cryopathic
Where: Pastel Destiny Island
When: Morning after rage event, a few hours after sunrise.
Rating: PG-13? Because they're probably in swearing moods.
Summary: The replica really wasn't expecting other escapist company, and especially not his creator.
the Story:
The sun was well up over the island, and it washed the soft peach beaches in pale yellow tones, the sky overhead clear and blue to the smudged edges of the horizon. Up on a small cliff overlooking the sea, beneath some rough semblance of an impressionistic Paopu tree, someone who looked bright and sharp in detail distinctly apart from the landscape slept sprawled at its shaded base, silver salt-matted head curled into his folded arms.
Arland had apparently chosen the ideal time to remove himself from a mansion gone mad with rage. Not that he hadn't suffered the magic out here as well...he'd spent the day alone and fuming and taking out his aggression in hard climbing, sprinting from one end of the island to the other, wrestling inally nterwith his own darkness in the privacy of the Secret Place, where raw sounds of frustration had echoed and maybe carried across the water.
At some point, he'd given up on even checking on the similar foul moods of everyone else, and had hurled his networking device into the sea. By some magic or miracle it was lying washed up on the shore now at dawn, still functional.
It had been long after the shooting stars had winked to life that the blood-boiling temper had finally subsided, and Arland drifted off mostly out of emotional and physical exhaustion after dropping skipping stones into the waves.
And now he slept in the warming sand, unaware of a visitor approaching his memory haven.
Where: Pastel Destiny Island
When: Morning after rage event, a few hours after sunrise.
Rating: PG-13? Because they're probably in swearing moods.
Summary: The replica really wasn't expecting other escapist company, and especially not his creator.
the Story:
The sun was well up over the island, and it washed the soft peach beaches in pale yellow tones, the sky overhead clear and blue to the smudged edges of the horizon. Up on a small cliff overlooking the sea, beneath some rough semblance of an impressionistic Paopu tree, someone who looked bright and sharp in detail distinctly apart from the landscape slept sprawled at its shaded base, silver salt-matted head curled into his folded arms.
Arland had apparently chosen the ideal time to remove himself from a mansion gone mad with rage. Not that he hadn't suffered the magic out here as well...he'd spent the day alone and fuming and taking out his aggression in hard climbing, sprinting from one end of the island to the other, wrestling inally nterwith his own darkness in the privacy of the Secret Place, where raw sounds of frustration had echoed and maybe carried across the water.
At some point, he'd given up on even checking on the similar foul moods of everyone else, and had hurled his networking device into the sea. By some magic or miracle it was lying washed up on the shore now at dawn, still functional.
It had been long after the shooting stars had winked to life that the blood-boiling temper had finally subsided, and Arland drifted off mostly out of emotional and physical exhaustion after dropping skipping stones into the waves.
And now he slept in the warming sand, unaware of a visitor approaching his memory haven.